Zero to Hero
by SpellCleaver
Summary: A series of ten 250 word drabbles focusing on Feyre, based off of one or two word prompts. Will range from canon compliant to completely AU. Hope you enjoy! Complete.
1. Mythology

**It's probably a supremely bad idea to start another story _now_ , but I've decided to do a series of oneshots - more like drabbles, really - based off of one word prompts. Please send some prompts in! **

**The stories may be in the canon universe, canon compliant, or completely AU. Each chapter will be 250 words long, and I'll aim to update every week (on Thursdays, probably?) but I might not even be able to manage that.**

 **Anyway, here's the first chapter!**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own ACOTAR.**

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 _Mythology_

It was a children's story. After all, outside of myths, would one ever hear a tale about a male becoming a slave - _imagine that_ , hypocrites tittered, _a High Fae male, a slave?_ \- to a curse broken when a human woman fell in love with him?

Ridiculous, many dismissed it as. But young Rhysand had taken the story to heart. Had visited the vast library of Velaris and done as much research as he could on the story.

The female had died. She was brought back by the High Lords, and received a piece of their magic in return for their sacrifice. The Cursebreaker, she was called. In later years, her descendants also held that title.

 _What happened to her?_ Rhys asked the librarians. _After her happily ever after?_

And he learned that she was not happy forever and instead left the High Fae she'd given everything for and went home. Gave up immortality to marry a human man there.

 _Did she have children?_

Perhaps, was the answer. We can never know.

The librarians had been wrong. He knew that now. Because he _knew_ now.

Knew it as surely as he knew the signs as surely as he knew what that bond he felt throbbing between them was. _Mate, mate, mate._

The human woman standing before him - Feyre, she'd said her name was - was the Cursebreaker.

And she was fending off him, and the rest of the faeries Amarantha set on the human realms, pretty damn well.


	2. Melancholy

**I've decided that Fridays will be when the weekly updates of this story are instead, so here's the next one!**

 **Many thanks to everyone who sent in prompts - please keep them coming! This prompt - "melancholy" - came from wavingthroughawindow.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own ACOTAR.**

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 _Melancholy_

"You've been crying." Rhys's voice came from behind her; Feyre jumped, then swiped at her face. "No: you _are_ crying."

"I'm fine," she said, then returned to scrubbing the dishes.

Rhys wasn't fooled.

Feyre felt a hand rest on her shoulder briefly and stilled, trying to prevent her frame from shaking with sobs as it had earlier.

"I'm fine," she said. He used his grip to swing her around so she was facing him.

"You're not," he countered. "You're at the end of your tether."

"What about you?" she shot back. "I may work more jobs than is healthy to support my family, but you're the one stuck in a warzone. No family at all." He lowered his eyes; she felt the hand on her shoulder clench slightly. She grasped its wrist - the bubbles on her hand soaked into his sleeve. "I'm at the end of my tether, but do you even _have_ one?"

He lifted his eyes back up to hers, and the hand fell from her shoulder. "You have problems in your life, Feyre; I, also, have problems. Mine don't invalidate yours."

She sighed. "I know," she said, turning back to the sink. "I know, Rhys. I'm sorry-"

She turned, but he was gone.

This time, she didn't sigh or cry. Just felt her heart sink.

This always happened.

The school therapist said she should make real friends. This wasn't healthy.

Because in the end, she knew, Rhys and his kindness were just figments of her imagination.


	3. Whispering Shadows

**Thanks to everyone who reviewed! This prompt came from whatifweareallfictional. I hope you like it!**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own ACOTAR.**

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 _Whispering Shadows_

"It's no use," Feyre huffed, sinking against the wall and jumping when it crumbled underneath her weight. "We're trapped down here."

"Now, now, Feyre darling," Rhysand said from behind her. "It's not time to panic yet."

She turned to glare at him before holding up her hands. Why, of all the people in her group, she'd had to be trapped under the mountain with _him_ she didn't know. "My fingernails are raw and bloody from trying to get out, the landslide's blocked off the passage, and the place threatens to collapse whenever we try to shift the debris," she said heatedly. " _When do you think we're supposed to panic?_ "

"I know this mountain," Rhysand said simply. "Amarantha is the crown of this mountain range - the biggest mountain range in all of Prythian! I've visited before, been trapped before, and been rescued before."

Feyre just looked at him. "And you _kept coming back_?" At his shrug, she just shook her head. "Anyway, this is a first for me. And I'd like to get myself out, Rhysand, rather than sit here waiting to be rescued."

"Rhys," he corrected.

"Fine, _Rhys_. Just be quiet, and let me-"

"Do what?" He'd stopped grinning. "Get us all crushed?"

"I-"

"Is anyone down here?" a voice shouted. Feyre started, then turned towards the source - just beyond the debris. "Hello?"

"We're here!" they shouted in unison; Feyre shot Rhys a look.

He didn't seem able to contain his grin. "Oh look," he said. "We're saved."


	4. Footsteps

**Thanks to everyone who reviewed! This prompt came from whatifweareallfictional. Also, I know that I've pretty much only been writing about Feyre, but she's my favourite character in this series, so. . . I'm going to keep doing it.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own ACOTAR.**

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 _Footsteps_

Feyre's footsteps were limp when she returned to the cottage, the food she brought negligible. Nesta pretended not to notice how little of it she actually ate.

And that night, when Feyre shivered in her space on the bed, she pretended not to notice that, either.

But she couldn't keep her mouth shut the next morning when even she rose before Feyre, when Nesta was accustomed to waking to the chill of bedsheets long abandoned. She stood in the doorway and watched her sister with narrowed eyes, focused on the chest that barely rose and fell at all.

"Get up," she snapped. Feyre didn't stir.

Curious (and worried), Nesta walked closer. Frowned. Peered over her.

Feyre's lips were blue. So were her fingers.

Was she ill? Had she spent too much time in the cold?

Nesta hoped not. If Feyre died, they would lose their only breadwinner (and her sister.)

So Feyre couldn't die. She wouldn't let her.

But what could she do?

Nesta's gaze slid back to the stiff fingers she was cradling in her hand. Feyre was cold.

She could try to. . . warm her up a bit?

She frowned again. Shifted into the bed next to her, loosely wrapping her arms around Feyre's torso. This might transfer some warmth to her, right?

So she lay there for hours, trying to help her sister.

It took several of those hours to realise that Feyre's arms had curled around her torso in kind, like her sister was hugging her back.


	5. Childhood

**Sorry that I missed yesterday's updated; I'm in the midst of exams and I was absolutely exhausted when I got home. But it's here now.**

 **This prompt was from wavingthroughawindow. Hope you enjoy it!**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own ACOTAR.**

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 _Childhood_

Feyre's mother was a queen.

She was a queen - one of the queens of the mortal realms - which meant Feyre, from what seemed like the moment she was born until right now, when she was a grand total of seven years old, was constantly reminded that she was a princess.

 _Princesses don't play in the mud. Princesses don't play with bows and swords._

 _No_ , Feyre always thought, _princesses are like Nesta and Elain, who are too busy sewing and darning and looking pretty to play with me._

She felt guilty thinking it - she did love her sisters, and sewing was a worthwhile skill - but the point still stood. She didn't want to be a pristine daughter; that may work for Nesta and Elain, but she wanted to be _herself_.

She wasn't going to be a queen, anyway. She was going to become a merchant like her father, sail the world. Bring flowers back for Elain.

In the future, that is. Right now, she was stuck greeting this stupid diplomat with the gold hair and annoying face.

"Feyre, this is Tamlin, High Lord of the Spring Court. Remember you were learning about Prythian in history the other day?"

How did her mother know that? She never spoke to her.

The man smiled. He didn't look very interesting. Faeries were supposed to be different to humans, like trees and other animals, but he only had pointed ears. Otherwise he looked boring.

"Hello, little one."

Feyre hated him already.


	6. Swamp

**This is a prompt from JustARandomNerd, hope you enjoy it!**

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 _Swamp_

The ground was soft under her foot; she took a tentative step forwards. The weight of her bow was. . . comforting, and when she glanced around, her quiver shifted, its weight equally so. Then the wind died down, and all was quiet.

She was alone.

Feyre sighed. She'd _known_ she would be alone out here: people never came this far north amid the swamps ( _bogs and muskegs,_ Elain would sigh); not only was it uncomfortably cold with the trees holding together the Earth and growing too close to be penetrable for a human.

 _But you're not here for humans, are you?_

The voice wasn't her own. She shuddered, a quiet gasp parting her lips, billowing in the frosty air. Now her hands were shaking, her legs. It had become so much colder, suddenly.

She collapsed onto her knees.

The ash arrow was heavy in her hand. She needed. . . needed to see the faeries. Her father was the laughing stock of the village because of his wild claims about faeries kidnapping her mother, Nesta, now Elain.

 _She_ knew it was true - she'd seen the red-haired woman, the violet-eyed man and the shadows with wings often enough - but she needed proof . Proof, and. . .

Revenge.

 _No you don't_ , the voice chided. _You need_ help _._

 _I can help you._

Her eyes had fallen to the ground, but she was looking at two polished black shoes? She frowned, looked up. Gasped.

Because she remembered those violet eyes.

She remembered them all too well.


	7. Espionage

**This is a prompt from wavingthroughawindow.**

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 _Espionage_

The dungeon Feyre had been staying in was dark and dingy, the walls unpleasantly damp, and she'd spent the entire time she'd been in there wanting to get out.

But now, seeing Rhys's pale face from across the chamber, the look of horror he was trying to hide, she wished she could go back there.

It was supposed to be a simple mission. She'd known her orders: travel across the mountain and deliver a message to the courts on the other side. She ostensibly had no allegiance - the Night Court was the one court that hadn't rebelled against Amarantha yet; they couldn't jeopardise that - and the hope had been to unite not only the Solar Courts, but the Seasonal Courts as well in a revolution against Her Highness.

Now, though, her capacity to carry out that mission was in doubt.

She'd carried no letter: the message was inside her head alone, and she hadn't divulged it under torture. So they'd given her to the one person who could get it out.

She met Rhys's violet gaze. He was a valuable spy; his intel was vital to their cause. But to ask him to torture her to maintain his guise... Could he do that?

Would he?

He had to, Feyre realised. For Velaris - for _Prythian_.

And she knew he knew it too. He just didn't like it.

"Do you recognise this whelp, Rhysand?" Amarantha purred.

 _Pretend to scream_ , Feyre heard against her mind, even as he said: "No."


	8. Chalk Art

**This is a prompt from whatifweareallfictional.**

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 _Chalk Art_

There was a scratching coming from outside. Feyre frowned, and rolled out of bed, almost hitting the wall. She was still used to her larger bedroom from their manor in the countryside, although her father's ships had sunk several months ago.

Feyre glanced at the desk cramped in the corner. It was the only desk in the room, so the three of them had to share it. Currently it held piles of paper documents handwriting - Nesta's schoolwork. All of Feyre's artwork and remaining supplies had been pushed onto the floor, left to blow about in the wind.

She felt tears prick her eyes as she knelt to pick them all up. Several pens had broken on impact, leaking ink all over the floor. She already had precious few supplies; she didn't need Nesta breaking the ones she had.

She counted them. She had the pencils and (what remained of) the pens, but. . . where were her chalks?

The scratching came again; she cocked her head. _That_ sounded like chalk. . .

She went to investigate.

Sure enough, Elain sat on the pavement out the front, pedestrians nimbly stepping around her and the blur of colour she'd created on the floor. Feyre stood in the doorway for a moment, watching. She was drawing flowers.

It was a moment before Elain noticed her; when she did, she jumped. "S-sorry," she spluttered. "It's just - we don't have a garden anymore, and-"

Feyre just knelt down next to her, and began to sketch alongside her.


	9. Revolution

**Sorry this is late, but I was busy on Friday and didn't have time to write. :/**

 **This will be the second-last chapter, and was a prompt from wavingthroughawindow.**

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 _Revolution_

The Inner Circle had been split on whether or not they wanted to contact this new potential ally. The small patch of land just below the Wall had historically been ungoverned, the only authority being the local lords who hired and fired the working-class population - that is, the only authority was who had money, and who didn't. Therefore, it had been an. . . unprofitable. . . ally to any of the courts.

But they'd heard about a revolution in these lands recently, and although the Night Court was extremely far removed from the human realm, it had been a hotly debated topic among Rhys's friends on whether they should reach out.

Mor and Cassian argued in its favour. Mor had always been soft for humans, and to Cassian, anyone who threw a successful revolution was worth looking into.

Amren and Azriel had been a little more hesitant. Amren had simply thought such a small patch of land inconsequential, and Azriel didn't like whatever he heard from his shadows. Something about a huntress. . .

Rhys could see said huntress, as he wandered into the hall with the other High Lords to meet the leaders of the revolution. There were three politicians - two looked related, with brown hair and harsh faces - but the huntress stood off to the side, with the generals. She looked like the politicians, except younger, more severe.

The taller politician stepped forward. "My name is Nesta Archeron," she said primly, gesturing at the table. "Shall we begin the meeting?"


	10. Fall

**So here's the last chapter! Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed and read this story, and I hope you enjoyed it :)**

 **Finally, this last one was a prompt from wavingthroughawindow.**

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 _Fall_

Velaris was beautiful as ever in autumn, when winds blew crisp and vibrant skies conceded to pearly grey clouds and leaves stood like flames on the trees before they burned out, shrivelled, brown, dry. Feyre itched to paint it, but how could she?

How could she paint the beauty when it reminded her of another beauty? A cruel beauty, with red-gold hair, teeth that flashed white when she smiled, eyes as dark as the newly fertile earth?

 _Amarantha has fallen_ , she chanted. _Hybern has fallen_. _They are as dead as the leaves I crush underfoot._

But how could she paint it when her heart hammered at the sight of it? Red: Amarantha's hair. Red: Andras's blood on the snow. Red: the petals on the ground.

"I can't do it," she told Rhys once.

"Then don't. No one will judge you."

She clenched her fist at the words. Her wedding ring bit into her hand; she glanced down at it, the blue colour reassuring. Like the sea, the free, open sky, her own eyes in the mirror, dry of tears.

But the ring was gold. The colour of those drinks Rhys had given her in _that place_ , the blaze of the wolf's eyes, the tint of Tamlin's magic as he threw her against the wall-

"There's an abyss inside me," she choked out. "I'm on the very edge. I'm going to fall."

He just hugged her closer. "If you fall, I'll catch you," he promised, and held her as she cried.


End file.
